CHAPTER EIGHT
“I cannot recommend traveling in winter. Or autumn. Or rain. Now that I think upon it, I cannot recommend traveling at all.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining the reasons why only those who enjoy recklessness and discomfort take to England’s dreadful roads in inclement conditions.
Reaver leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and cursed the inventor of closed carriages. Automatically, his gaze found Miss Widmore’s bosom. It had become a comfort to him, a sight that brought pleasure even when his neck ached from trying to fit into a too-small space.
That thought led to contemplations about other tight fits. His hands clenched, and he stifled a groan.
She sat across from him, tucked snugly beside the window to leave him plenty of room. Her eyes were glued to the passing street. Her gloved hands were folded in her lap. Her brown pelisse was worn but clean.
God, how he wanted her. The need grew moment by moment. Unquenchable. Unstoppable.
Earlier, in his dressing room, he’d been near enough to absorb her scent. He’d never smelled anything as good. No perfume. No flowers or cloying spice. She smelled like wind on water. Like skin and soap. Not costly scented soap. Laundering soap. With just a hint of lemon.
He longed to devour her.
“I do hope you have practiced discretion, Mr. Reaver.”
Not as much as he should. Far more than he wished.
“My sister is a virtuous young lady. Her reputation must be protected.” Gray eyes turned to him. “You understand, do you not?”
“Shaw has instructed the staff to keep her presence secret.”
“And will they?”
“They’ll do as they are told or suffer the consequences.”
She swallowed and nodded, her gaze dropping briefly to his chin before resuming its fascination with the window.
His own gaze returned to her breasts. Hard nipples pressed against the confines of her corset and shift and bodice and wool. They wanted his attention.
By God, they had it.
“You cannot be comfortable,” she murmured.
No. No, he wasn’t. He ached and throbbed and bloody well pined for a taste of her.
“You should order a modified carriage with a higher top. No one should have to travel without sufficient room for one’s head.”
“Your concern warms my heart, Miss Widmore.”
Once again, she glanced his way. Eyed his sprawled legs and stooped posture. Sniffed. “I only point it out because you seem determined to live without comforts. An empty house. An ill-fitting coach. Even your office is, at best, serviceable.”
“I like my office.”
“I’ve little doubt.”
“What does that mean?”
Gray eyes took in his entire length. “Only that you appear to favor utility.”
“Utility is what matters.”
A russet brow rose. “Comfort also matters, Mr. Reaver. Comfort and pleasure. You can afford both function and form, you know.”
He bit down on a response. What would a highborn spinster know about it? She might not enjoy the wealth her father once provided, but she had inherited a tidy sum for her and her sister’s dowries. She also owned a small but sound cottage and reportedly lived upon the proceeds of investments her uncle had helped establish. He doubted she worried much about funds, apart from the occasional, unanticipated expense.
A trip to London in pursuit of a prospective husband, for example.
He frowned. Bloody Glassington. A useless, irresponsible earl who could purchase access to Augusta Widmore’s divine bosom and wide mouth with a name and title.
“Goodness, there is no need to glare daggers at me,” she said, her chin rising. “My suggestion to increase the height of your carriage is a practical one.”
“A taller coach would be more apt to topple.”
She clicked her tongue. “Then lower the bottom. You need a longer door anyway.”
“You know nothing of my needs.”
“Why are you being so unreasonable—”
“Because, as usual, you see everything as an opportunity to plague a man with your unwanted opinions.”
A tiny crinkle formed between her brows. Her head drew back until the crown of her bonnet bumped the slope of the carriage’s rear wall. “Very well, Mr. Reaver. If you find my opinions so odious, I shall endeavor to keep them to myself.”
With that, she withdrew from him. Moved her gaze back to the street. Tightened her mouth and her posture.
He wanted to howl. He wanted to kiss her. Claim her. Right there in his too-small carriage.
He wanted to beg her forgiveness for snarling at her like a starving dog.
Instead, he held his silence and forced himself to stop picturing her with Glassington.
By the time they pulled into the mews behind the club, he felt ready to hit someone. Preferably a certain young earl who owed him thousands of pounds.
Exiting the carriage took some maneuvering, as always, but he managed. Once he was out, he extended his hand to assist Miss Widmore.
She ignored him, using the door’s frame to brace herself as she stepped down onto the cobblestones.
Damn and blast. He had hurt her. She would not even raise the brim of her bonnet to look at him.
“Shaw tells me your sister is feeling much better today,” he attempted as an olive branch, waving toward the back door.
Her only reply was a nod before starting toward the entrance. “Good morning, Mr. Duff,” she greeted his sentry brightly. “The weather appears to have taken mercy upon you.”
The big man chuckled. “Aye, indeed, Miss Widmore. A bit of drizzle for a time, but quite fine since then.”
She smiled.
Duff smiled back.
“Open the bloody door, Duff.”
The man’s shaggy brows arched in startled fashion. “Aye, Mr. Reaver.”
She preceded Reaver into the darkened interior, her back stiff. “There was no call for such rudeness.”
He grunted. She was right, of course. And now he’d angered her further.
She navigated the dark passage to the service stairs as though she had a map and a torch. He supposed she knew the way well by now, having invaded his club twice.
“Third floor,” he instructed.
Again, she merely nodded, gathering a handful of her skirts and climbing the first flight of stairs at a brisk pace.
He followed close behind her, savoring every small whiff of her scent, every luscious swing of her hips.
“Dr. Young recommended plenty of rest and frequent meals,” he said, hoping her anger would lessen with a bit of reassuring conversation. “Shaw believes your sister should stay here for the remainder of her time in London. We have an excellent cook. French. Can make her anything she desires.”
Apparently, he was incompetent at both reassurances and conversation, because this time, she did not even nod.
As they reached the third floor, he ducked beneath a lintel and grasped her elbow.
She jerked to a halt and yanked her arm to be released.
Keeping his grip gentle, he nevertheless held her fast. “I’ll go first,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t be seen wandering about.”
In the low light, he could not see her expression, but when she spoke, he felt coated in frost. “By all means, Mr. Reaver. Take the lead.”
He slid his hand away slowly. Reluctantly. Then, he sidled past her, fighting the urge to press her against the wall and bury his nose in her neck again.
Given her state of mind, such an action would likely result in damage to his more vulnerable places. His eyes. His nose. Perhaps even his …
Aye, he thought. Probably a bad idea.
Instead, he forged ahead, examining the corridor for servants and guests. At the far end of the well-lit passage, one pair of gents laughed and linked arms drunkenly before turning toward the main staircase. A footman moved briskly to replace two tapers that had burned low.
Behind him, Augusta Widmore’s impatience pressed like hot fire irons into his shoulders. Or perhaps that was her annoyance.
When the corridor was empty, he waved her forward and led her to Phoebe Widmore’s door. Above her head, he reached out to knock, but she had already opened the thing.
Inside, her sister sat beside the fire, reading. The younger, paler, thinner, prettier version of Augusta leapt to her feet and dropped her book from her lap. “Augusta,” the girl cried, her lower lip quivering as she rushed into her sister’s waiting arms.
“There now, Phee.” She hugged her tightly before pulling back to stroke Phoebe’s hair and cup her cheek with a gloved hand. “You’ve a bit more color. How are you feeling?”
“Better. Dr. Young and Mrs. Frelling have been most kind. I’ve had three cups of chocolate already this morning.” The girl chuckled and sniffed.
“And Mr. Shaw?”
Phoebe’s cheeks pinkened. “He likes to have his way in most matters. He forbade me to leave without his knowledge.”
Augusta nodded and squeezed her sister’s shoulders. “A sensible course. We wouldn’t want your presence here to be discovered. Has he been kind?”
“I suppose.” A frown tugged at Phoebe’s brow. “He insists that I nap four times a day and eat six. I’ve told him nobody sleeps that much, and six meals are too many even for Mr. Duff.”
“Mmm. Mr. Shaw is a gentleman. I am certain he only wishes to ensure your good health.” She stroked Phoebe’s cheek again. “You must take better care of yourself, Phee. You should never have come here on your own. I told you I would find you better accommodations as soon as I was settled.”
“I could not wait.” Phoebe grasped Augusta’s hands. “Please say you have resisted becoming that man’s mistress in truth.”
Reaver cleared his throat.
Augusta stiffened. “A bit of privacy would be appreciated, Mr. Reaver.”
“No,” Phoebe said, pulling away from her sister and approaching his position in front of the door. “I want to speak with you.” Wide blue eyes sparked with outrage. “How dare you, sir. How dare you proposition my sister with such a scandalous—”
“Phoebe.”
“—arrangement. She is no one’s mistress. Any man with a jot of sense would know upon first sight she is a lady of uncommon worth. She should be treated with the courtesy due such a virtuous—”
“Phoebe, this is not helpful.”
“—and splendid woman. I say again, how dare you!”
Oddly enough, her diatribe generated a slithery, sickly sensation beneath his skin. It felt like shame.
“Phee! Please. My arrangement with Mr. Reaver is mutual. He has not forced me into anything—”
Phoebe swung around, her hands on her hips. “You were desperate. He took advantage. That is despicable, even for a lowborn ruffian.”
Shame slithered deeper and went cold. Dark. He felt every muscle deaden.
“He’s done nothing I did not want,” Augusta said quietly. “Do you really believe I would allow a man to manipulate me in such a way?”
Phoebe heaved a shuddering breath and slid her arms across her own waist. “You will be ruined, Augusta.”
The words were whispered, but they slammed into Reaver like a fist to the gut.
She would be. Despite his precautions, Augusta Widmore would be ruined. Forever. She was a spinster, yes, and a tempting, aggravating, delectable, challenging nuisance. But, whether her role as his mistress was real or a ruse, she would never again make an acceptable wife for a gentleman.
Except, perhaps, for Glassington. He might marry her, if only to erase the markers.
Abruptly, what had been cold went hot. The darkness rose higher and burned in his stomach. In his throat. When his voice emerged, it was guttural and singed.
“The decision was hers. She chose to be mine.” He looked at Augusta, who wore a frown. “Withdraw if you like. Return to Hampshire. But know this. If you do, it will be without the markers. We have an agreement. I mean to keep it.”
Before the bizarre, raging forces inside him could spiral further out of control, he threw open the door. “I’ll send a maid for you, Miss Widmore. Half-hour,” he barked as he stalked into the corridor. “Don’t leave this room without her.”
*~*~*
Augusta flinched as the door closed. Then, she sighed.
“He is a ruffian,” Phoebe said. “Oh, Augusta, are you certain—”
“Yes,” she replied. “I am.”
Sebastian Reaver might be a ruffian. He might be rude and cantankerous and entirely too Spartan, but he would never hurt her. She knew that as surely as she knew her left hand from her right. The man had gone to great pains not to hurt her, even when she’d driven him mad, invading his club, pestering and haranguing him into making a bargain with her.
The bargain he’d offered had, in fact, been intended to drive her away and frighten her into preserving her own reputation. She’d wager her beloved cottage on it.
Mr. Reaver had honor. Perhaps it was of a different sort than her father’s, but it was no less real.
“Now,” Augusta continued, giving her sister a stern glance. “Let us discuss your reckless behavior for a moment.”
“Must we?”
“You are presently residing in a gaming club, Phee.”
“Well, yes. Mr. Shaw insisted.”
“And you’ve allowed a physician to examine you.”
Phoebe bit her lip and nodded. “He promised to tell no one. Dr. Young is a gentleman.”
Noting that Phoebe’s hands had settled protectively over her belly, Augusta eased into a small smile. “When does he say the babe will come?”
“Seven months, if all goes well.”
Augusta swallowed and nodded. “We must take great care now. You understand, do you not? If anyone learns you are with child before you wed Lord Glassington, there will be no way to mend the damage.”
“I know.”
“Tell nobody else. Especially Mr. Shaw.”
Suddenly, Phoebe’s expression shuttered. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Why him, especially?”
“He will surely inform Mr. Reaver, and one cannot be certain how that man might react.”
Phoebe’s mouth tightened. “Toss us out, likely. Or perhaps demand further concessions from you.” Her eyes focused upon Augusta’s face. “Marriage, even.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“It’s not so farfetched. The Widmore name—”
“Means nothing to a man like him. Besides, a permanent attachment does not suit his purpose.”
“What precisely is his purpose?”
Augusta sighed. “I have set him a challenge he does not wish to lose.”
Phoebe opened her mouth, undoubtedly to ask another question, but Augusta simply held up a hand. “Leave Mr. Reaver to me. You must focus upon regaining your strength. Living here should make it easier.”
She nodded and grinned. “Much. No children crying in the corridor. No scurrying rats or dripping pots.”
Laughing at the memories, Augusta shook her head. “That place was horrid, wasn’t it? Mrs. Brown’s screaming fits. Mrs. Renley’s fondness for gin. Miss Honeybrook’s frequent visitors.”
“Oh, I quite liked Miss Honeybrook.”
Augusta brushed at a curl along Phoebe’s cheek. “Having you here, where you are safe, sets my mind at ease. Now, I can concentrate on Mr. Reaver.”
Blue eyes went wide. “What do you intend to do?”
Raising her chin, she sniffed. “I intend to hold him to his promise. Whether he likes it or not.”
Precisely a half-hour later, the maid knocked upon the door. Augusta was surprised to note it was the same girl she’d encountered on the service stairs on her first incursion into Reaver’s.
The girl smiled warmly. “Miss Widmore? I’m Edith. Mr. Reaver sent me to show you to his office.”
Augusta nodded, gave Phoebe one last hug, and reminded in a whisper, “If you need anything, send a note to the address I gave you. I shall come straight away.”
Phoebe sniffed and squeezed her tight before bidding goodbye.
As Augusta followed Edith into the corridor, the maid proved to be rather chatty. “So, you’re workin’ for Mr. Reaver now, I hear.”
Augusta blinked. Rather an odd way to phrase their arrangement, she thought. “You might say that. Do you enjoy working here at the club?”
“I adore it. Hard work, but the pay is mighty generous. And Mr. Shaw and Mr. Reaver don’t countenance so much as a lustful glance our way from the men. First sign of such things, and they toss the blackguard out on his … well, his ear.” Edith giggled. “Big Annie says it’s even better at Mr. Reaver’s house. Double the sum and scarcely a footstool to dust. You’ll like it there, I reckon.”
Ah, so Anne was known as Big Annie, at least to Edith. The older maid was, indeed, quite large. She wondered if Anne had managed to force little Ash into Mr. Reaver’s shirt after Augusta’s departure. The boy was incorrigible. She stifled a grin.
Clearing her throat, she continued their conversation as they reached the service staircase and started toward the second floor. “Does Anne also work here?”
“In spring, mostly, when the season is on. That’s when the club is busiest. We have a wager goin’, she and I. She says she travels farther in a day than me on account of Mr. Reaver’s house bein’ quite large. I think stairs should count for more, since I’m climbin’ so much.”
Augusta found Edith’s casual manner toward her unusual. What had Mr. Reaver said about Augusta’s role? He could not have specified she was to be his mistress, or the girl’s behavior would be quite different. Less forthcoming and likely less friendly.
Often, servants exhibited greater concern for propriety than their employers.
“Here we are, Miss Widmore,” Edith said, cheerfully leading the way into the antechamber of Mr. Reaver’s office. “Might wish to knock before you enter.” She chuckled and shook her shoulders in a mock shudder. “That’s a mistake you only make once. Good luck!”
Augusta thanked her and followed her advice.
“Come.” The rumble sounded like a bear from inside a cave.
She drew a deep breath before entering.
He stood behind his desk, his back to her, thumbing through an account book. She was reminded of the previous occasions she’d been inside his office. It looked the same—green walls, oak shelves flanking the single window, a set of drawers behind a massive oak desk, and … not much else. A couple of wooden chairs. A lamp or two. Everything was deliberately unadorned, no draperies or paintings or even a carpet upon the plank floors.
Her eyes fell upon the shelf to the right of the window. The single exception stood out like a ruby on a barren dune. It was an ormolu clock, filigreed and gilded. She’d wondered since her first visit why he’d kept the frilly thing.
“Sit,” he said without turning. “I’ll be a moment.”
She remained standing, examining his shoulders. His thighs. His hair. He’d cut it too short. She’d prefer to see it at a proper length, imagining how thick and straight it would be. How a lock of black might settle across his forehead. How she might brush it gently aside before their lips met …
Good heavens. Perhaps she should resume ruminating upon his clock.
“Still vexed with me, eh?”
Her eyes flew back to him. Onyx flashed behind silver-rimmed spectacles.
“Vexed?” she queried, a bit breathless.
He frowned, his fiercely masculine features made more so in contrast with the small, round rims perched on his long, sharp nose. “For what I said. Earlier.”
“Could you be more specific? You say many rude things.”
Snapping the account book closed, he opened a drawer and shoved it inside. Then, he removed his spectacles and tossed them on his desk. “You wanted to buy furniture.”
From his tone, she could not discern whether his statement was an observation or an accusation. So, she opted for a neutral “Hmm.”
“I shall take you.”
She blinked. Glanced behind her at the closed door. Then at his desk. Then at him. “T-take me?”
“Aye. To buy furniture. We’ll say you’re my adviser.”
“Adviser.”
“Aye. About decorating and such.”
“Decorating.”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“Well, start making sense, and perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary!”
He raked a hand across the top of his head. “Bloody, bleeding hell, you’re a nuisance.”
“And you are a boorish beast. Yet, somehow, I manage to control the urge to insult you repeatedly in every conversation. What a fascinating contrast.”
Releasing a frustrated breath, he came around his desk, covering the distance between them in several paces. “There is a man who builds furniture. He has a warehouse. I shall take you there today.”
“Does this man owe you money, perhaps?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Hmmph. I shall take that as a yes.”
His scowl turned darker. “A nuisance and a prude. Quite the charmer, you are. Must have dazzled all the gents in Hampshire.”
The sting of his comment thrust hard and deep, but she took care not to let it show. “You might be surprised,” she lied calmly. “I, however, find nothing surprising about you.”
“Is that so?”
As he inched closer, she raised her chin. “Indeed. You hold these men’s markers as trophies. It gives you power over them, and you relish it. Just as you do with me.”
“Think you know everything, do you? Think I’m so predictable?”
She felt a tug beneath her chin. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Removing your bonnet.”
She swatted at his hands, but he tugged her hat away and held it aloft, leaving her swatting at air. “Give that back!”
He tossed it across the room. It landed neatly in the center of his desk. “Go and get it.”
What in blazes? He’d widened his stance, placing himself between her and the stolen bonnet like a cricket fielder.
“You are mad.”
“Aye. But not predictable, eh?”
“Mad is not better, you gigantic dunderpate!”
Black eyes glittered with … excitement? “Take down your hair.”
“I will not.” She ran a hand above her ear, tidying what she could.
“I wish to see it.”
“With the greatest respect, Mr. Reaver, your wishes mean less to me than the deposits made in the privy this morning.”
His head tilted and his mouth curved in a wicked half-smile. “A fine parry, Miss Widmore. Come now. You’re my mistress. Mistresses do these sorts of things to please their patrons.”
Tingles bubbled over her skin as though she’d bathed in champagne. Gritting her teeth against the sensation, she strove to ignore his inexplicable hold upon her senses.
“At the moment, pleasing you is the opposite of my aim. Apart from which, we both know I am not truly your mistress.”
Glittering onyx sharpened. “How do we know that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly. You spent last night here. You’ve told your staff I am your employee, not your paramour. And, while you have a disturbing tendency to haul me about like a valise, you haven’t so much as kissed me. I predict you shall never do so, because you do not want me for that purpose. You’re merely trying to force me to back down by making outrageous demands. Well, I shall not back down. I mean to have Lord Glassington’s markers.”
His jaw hardened and flickered. “So you can drag him to the altar.”
“My purpose is of no consequence to you. Now, step aside, if you please. I should like to retrieve my hat.”
“Come and take it,” he rumbled softly.
Her eyes narrowed upon him. Without warning, she feinted left and darted right. Perhaps she should have done the opposite, because in a blink, a steely arm snagged her waist, seizing her firmly against him. She squirmed against outlandish muscles, her hands pressing his chest, her hips grinding and arching into his thighs.
A warm, massive hand gripped her nape, tilting her head back so she could not avoid his gaze. The sight struck her hard and low.
Onyx had gone molten. One muscle—impossibly long and thick—had gone hard as stone against her belly.
Oh, dear heaven.
Did he want her?
As his mouth swooped toward hers, she knew. Preposterous as it seemed, he wanted her. And nothing could have surprised her more.
*~*~*